


Every Breath an Art

by Devilc



Category: Blade Trinity
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:17:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drake keeps him chained to the throne.  He knows exactly why he's there and what's expected of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Breath an Art

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Pr0n Battle 12, the Dirty Dozen](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/40106.html)  
> The title is taken from a line in "The Blood is Love" by The Queens of the Stone Age. The complete list of prompt words I used is: paradise, claim, touch, husband, seach, find, bite, desire, marked, jealous, lick, serve, red, blood, taste, lost. missing, tied, chained, mouthy, back talk, harem, kill
> 
> Can be read as a sequel to [New Day Dawning](http://archiveofourown.org/works/51464) if you like.
> 
> Legalese: Blade Trinity is copyright its owners. This is merely some kinky whatiffery in response to challenge.

Drake makes a show of leading him in and keeping him chained to the throne whenever he holds court.

Not because there’s any chance of Hannibal escaping -- he has no desire to do so -- but because it’s a very public show of staking his claim. Hannibal is his, and his _alone_. It’s but one of the ways he’s marked his ~~husband~~ Consort, and, frankly, it’s better than a wedding ring.

Drake doesn’t hold court often. He doesn’t stand on meaningless ceremonies and he despises the petty intrigues of court. But, it’s necessary and a duty and Drake takes duty deadly seriously. And that’s both literal and figurative.

Hannibal takes his duty as court ~~jester~~ ~~joker~~ wiseass seriously, too. His job is to sit, chained to the foot of the throne, and mouth off to whomever he wishes. He even back talks Drake, loudly and clearly, and often.

They gasp at that, all the lickspittles and fang-bangers. Those who _know_ smile discretely and look away.

If nothing else, Hannibal’s words keep court moving along. He loves his work.

Only he sits close enough to see the desire flare in Drake’s eyes with every barbed (but true) word that falls from his mouth. Hannibal likes to watch it crest and ebb, but trend ever higher with the passage of time.

Drake stands and adjourns court, not because he’s bored -- court is never dull, not with Hannibal’s mouth providing running commentary -- but because his lust has reached a fever pitch.

He takes Hannibal’s chain in hand and together they make a brisk exit towards Drake’s private chambers, where Hannibal kneels before him, eager to serve, reaching for the front of Drake’s jeans, but Drake stays his hand this time. Instead, he tilts Hannibal’s chin up, studying his face for several moments, but his own expression remains blank, inscrutable. “I’ve been thinking about a harem,” he purrs, “a stable of everything nubile and willing that humanity has to offer.”

“Is this the part where I pout and fly in to a jealous rage?” Hannibal asks flippantly. “Because, I will do that -- but only if you promise we’ll have hot make up sex.”

Drake tisks at that.

“Or, is that you want to see me with somebody else and then _you_ get incredibly jealous and kill them -- and I can totally supply you with a list of suitable candidates for this -- and then we have hot make up sex?”

Drake arches an eyebrow.

“Or,” Hannibal continues, ticking off the options on his fingers, “we could just _pretend_ , and jump right into the --”

He doesn’t get to complete the thought because almost too quick for even him to assimilate the motion, Drake’s got him naked and tied to the bed.

It never gets old, what Drake does to him.

Tonight, it starts with a long slow liiiiiick up the blades of his hips, and then the bite, marking him, claiming him, Drake groaning throatily at the taste of Hannibal’s blood as Hannibal shivers and swears and they both watch as a thin trickle of blood -- shockingly red against the whiteness of Hannibal’s skin -- runs down to soak into the thatch of hair at the base of Hannibal’s hard, aching, oh-so-needy cock.

Drake sits back and studies him, cocks his head this way and that. His eyes gleam yellow in the dim light.

Hannibal clucks his tongue. “Nobody likes a prick tease.” He knows full well that the words will goad Drake into taking his time and prolonging the exquisite agony he wreaks with his tongue and fingers before plunging his cock in and taking and taking and _taking_ what he wants from Hannibal. Each stroke hits Hannibal right there and Drake leers down at him -- liking this wanton creature that Hannibal’s become -- before biting his lip and kissing him bloody. Sex and blood -- old, potent blood on his tongue, tasting of power and pride and secrets best kept hidden -- and the sheer relentlessness of Drake driving into him … It’s Paradise, really.

When it’s over and Hannibal’s a wrung out, limp, sweating mess, Drake looses the bonds and says in a quiet voice, “Y’know, I had a harem before. I spent over a thousand years searching there for something I never knew was missing, and I never found it, not between a woman’s legs or in a boy’s ass, or in their blood. And then I found you.”

Hannibal snorts. “Find me?! You couldn’t miss me! I was chained in a room and they opened the door and let you in. You damn near tripped over me! Some mighty hunter you are.”

He feels as much as hears Drake’s rumble of laughter. “Just for that insolence -- I’m getting a harem.”

“Good,” Hannibal replies brightly. “I’m starving.”


End file.
